On soaking in art.

Of course, it probably goes without saying that my main agenda in Paris were its museums... just as many as our poor, abused little feet could handle. And abuse them we did. We tore them up at the Orsey, bandaged them at the Orangeree, boogered them up again at the Rodin museum, and blistered them beyond recognition on a day trip to the gardens at Geverney... and let's not even mention the abuse issued at the Louvre.

At the end of my week in Paris everything below my ankles was wailing in agony, but my soul was so full, so uniquely and unmistakenly alive, so fed that it literally hurt. Anyone who has ever witnessed the strange spectical of me in a museum knows the sort of giddy, spastic, elated high I flow into after being saturated with so much beauty. Let's just say then that in Paris I soaked myself in it... I left there so saturated in art that my fingers might as well have been all pruny, for all I know.

Here is a smattering of shots from those lovely places. I'm sorry though... I just couldn't bring myself to do that awful touristy "and here's a picture of me in front of the Mona Lisa!" thing... so there are no pictures of the pieces themselves. You'll just have to take my word for the fact that I've seen 'em, I guess.

And by the way... the Mona Lisa really is a piddly little thing... it's really such a load of hullaballeoy hype that she's so darn famous.

Yikes, I better stop now before I get into an art rant. :)